Poetry for Psychopaths
by ALittleFishy
Summary: Ginny Weasley is pouring her soul out to her diary again, but said diary is finding it rather dull. Quite frankly, Tom is bored, and funny things tend to happen when Tom gets bored. Terrible? Yes. But funny.
_Tuesday, February 9th, 1993_

 _Dear Diary (or should I say 'Tom'!),_

'Please abstain', thought Tom sarcastically, though he did not convey the message to the girl. He was supposed to be her confidant, and confidants did not reply sarcastically to pathetic bids for intimacy-which is exactly what this was, obviously.

 _I feel a bit scared: I did something today that makes wonder if I'm perhaps a few straws short of a broomstick._

'No doubt', Tom almost snorted (but he did not snort, for snorting was-and always had been-beneath him, even as a teenaged soul-fragment trapped in a young girl's diary).

Instead, Tom responded with "Don't be ridiculous, of course you're not. Didn't you get an E on that Charm's quiz last Friday? Which was much better than that T of Georgiana's, let tell me you."

He was half-hoping to make Ginny isolate herself from her associates; fewer people to notice something amiss.

 _Well, that's true. I don't understand how she managed to mix-up wingardium leviosa and incendio. Lucky for that frog she pronounced the fire spell wrong._

Tom took a moment to commiserate about the idiots of the world.

 _But anyway, what happened was still strange._

 _I was walking down the seventh floor corridor, fulling intending to go to lunch, when all of a sudden I wake up in Myrtle's bathroom and there's blood draining down the sink (isn't that nasty? Reminds me of the wall writing with that chamber of secrets business)._

'What an arbitrary coincidence.' Tom thought sardonically.

 _So I went down to get some lunch, maybe see Harry,_

Now if he could somehow get to Harry Potter, then he might be able to do something more purposeful, something that might be worth the act of creating a Horcrux.

 _but then I met Georgiana, who was coming up the staircase, and she asked 'where were you, because you missed lunch?' and then she started talking about the Valentine's day preparations and who likes her-and of course, the whole time I'm thinking 'oh Merlin, I can't remember the last hour, not one teensie bit.' It was so weird. Maybe I messed up the forgetfulness draught we were brewing in Potions this morning._

"That's possible. There was a boy in my year who was so hopeless at memory potions that when he tested his, instead of remembering his day more clearly, he remembered another person's day entirely-quite traumatized him, poor boy. Of course, that came from adding horned slugs instead of pickled toads-really, they look nothing alike!-but you can't do that with a forgetfulness draught. More likely you just inhaled the fumes of some classmate's incorrectly prepared attempt."

 _That makes perfect sense! Oh Tom, you always know exactly what to say._

Really, she was almost depressingly easy to manipulate. Then again, what sort of moronic individual writes in a diary after it writes back? Lucky for him, but also unlucky, as he had to listen to all her imbecilic ramblings. As if to prove his point, she continued:

 _I really am excited for the Valentine's Day celebrations. Professor Lockhart-_

A person truly worthy of his scorn.

 _-said we could write Valentine's day cards and have them delivered by cupids!_

Tom felt just a little bit nauseous.

 _'Course, everyone knows they're not real cupids, just house elves dressed up in feathers, but I suppose that would be a bit much for Hogwart's budget? They're still going to be amazing though, I can tell._

Tom had a very deep abhorrence of blind faith, and he could tell her silly certainty would be ruthlessly trampled upon, come the 14th of February.

Feathery house elves; Tom was dangerously close to snorting.

 _I even heard they sing poetry!_

Now Tom did snort (or, as much as a soul-fragment trapped in a diary can do so). Happily, there were no witnesses, which relieved him somewhat.

Merlin, he'd lost control a bit there.

 _I want to give one to Harry, he's very sensitive, I think he'd appreciate it. Do you think so? You know, being a boy and all?_

"I can't really say I know what he'd like, but I know I was happy to receive a Valentine's day card from my girlfriend. It had a very sweet rhyme in it." Tom just made that up, he'd never received any cards, period, until he'd started collecting associates (the young death eaters), and those held only the ingratiating sentiments to be expected from fools in fear and awe of his powers. Not that he'd want them any other way.

 _Well, I'm not his girlfriend of course, but maybe I could use the card to tell him what I really think of him?_

"That's very brave."

 _I suppose...Not like him though, not like destroying You-Know-Who. Besides, I don't know if I can do it. I'm not nearly good enough for him…_

"Perhaps you could send it anonymously? He would still get the kind words, just without your signature."

 _Oh, that's brilliant! Thank you Tom!_

"You're welcome." There was no way she'd manage to maintain anonymity-no subtlety at all. She'd probably end up deeply mortified.

Tom would feel sorry for her, were he capable of such an emotion. As it was, he just felt a little peaky.

 _Do you think you could help me with the phrasing a little? I have an idea of what I want to say, but I'm pants with poetry._

'And most probably life in general', thought Tom, but what he said was:

"I'd love to." This was, afterall, a golden opportunity for entertainment…

...5 Minutes Later...

 _His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,_

 _His hair is as dark as a blackboard._

 _I wish he was mine,_

 _He's really divine,_

 _The hero who conquered the Dark Lord._

'Appropriately ironic,' he decided, before settling in to wait for the waterworks.

...

Years later, as a deformed baby lying in the train station of purgatory, Tom reflected on his unfortunate proclivity for self-fulfilling prophesies.


End file.
